


Cura Te Ipsum

by laideur



Category: A Study in Emerald - Neil Gaiman, Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Body Horror, Drug Use, Horror, M/M, Mental Illness, Monsters, Theater - Freeform, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes, the 4th dimension, victorian gothic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 02:25:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7826593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laideur/pseuds/laideur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A more fleshed out version of the A Study In Emerald universe, covering Holmes' and Watson's meeting. You know this story, but now there are monsters and Victorian gothic bullshit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had my complete annotated Sherlock Holmes and my complete fiction of HP Lovecraft on a shelf with Flatland in between them and this is what they bred.
> 
> I'm writing a comic book based on this story. It is here thedailyemerald.tumblr.com  
> This is a prose version of the first "episode," because drawing is slow and I felt like getting it all out.

That I had been in the Afghan War was painfully obvious to anyone with eyes to see and a brain to think. There was not a soul in London who had not heard the stories of soldiers returning from abroad with strange battle scars unsound minds. It was implied by looks and unsaid words that the lucky ones did not return at all. My medical schooling had not prepared me for the half of it, not for the raw brutality of war, nor for the injuries that could not have been inflicted by any earthly thing. Nor for the keening madness that followed men off the battlefield and sunk its claws dream-deep in their brains. I was not prepared for it to happen to me. 

This affliction I carried back with me, it hung over me like a miasma. Some ineffable animal sense alerted people around me that I was not like them. Never in my life had I experienced this sort of tacit rejection. Upon my return to New Albion I wanted nothing so much as to be surrounded by people and to feel the safety of a crowd. But even in London, surrounded by millions, I was bitterly alone. It was almost as bad as being at the bottom of a cave. 

There was nothing to be done for my particular madness – if, indeed, I was mad. In those days “dream madness” was very in vogue. It was an aesthetic ailment for romantic heroines. Only those of particularly poetical disposition were so psychically oversensitive to be thus affected. Thus it became common for society ladies to feign the illness in order to seem more interesting. I admit it made me doubt my own mind.

I tried to keep my experiences to myself, when I could. It became difficult when I was awoken by horrors in the night, or when I saw things that lurked in darkened alleys or shadowy corners. 

There was no cure, so, as a doctor, I prescribed myself medicine: a very great deal of whisky.

Thank the Gods for whisky.

Alcohol is the greatest invention in the scientific history of mankind. Trains, telegraphs, moveable type: all of that can go hang. They may help get things done, but can a train soothe the soul? I think not (unless you walk in front of it, maybe.) I took my 11s 6p per diem— that lordly sum I was allotted in exchange for, having had the very great honour of serving Her Majesty's Army, passing the rest of my days like a ghost, like a leper, like a lame dog— and literally pissed it away, quite happily.

The Queen’s Arms was my favoured haunt. No one cared if I played billiards badly, or that I laughed too loudly when the pianist played that silly song about the wounded soldier and I looked around to see if anyone noticed it was about me. Sometimes, in a confused drunken way, I liked to imagine I and all my fellow drinkers were suspended in a lovely peaceful afterlife. 

Being, as it was, not the afterlife, but a London pub, women occasionally pestered me. If I were the man I once was I would be amenable to their advances. Women tend to dote upon me. I have been told I have a certain boyish charm – maybe it’s the size of my ears— that makes women find me approachable. As soon as they get a good look at me, the alcohol haze falls away and they cannot mask the look of alarm at what they see in my eyes. 

In The Queen’s Arms there was a small stage at the end of the long room, past the billiards tables and the small round tables for seating. A piano abutted one side. On weekends it became a hotbed of mediocre singers and musicians.

Very late one night in early winter, I was sitting at the bar nursing a drink. The pianist was plinking away at something, and what with the low murmur of the sparse crowd, the thrice blessed whisky, and my own dismal thoughts, I took no notice when he stopped and an unfamiliar man took the stage. 

Now, I do not pretend to know anything about music. I can only speak of my subjective experience. The first note struck me as discordant and tentative, like an inhale before breaking silence. And then as the music softly slipped over me, I paused, entranced.

I turned around and saw a tall, thin, pale, raven haired man dressed in a dark suit, who seemed to float in the haze of smoke and gaslight. I do not know exactly what he played on his violin, but I’ll never forget it. It sounded quite old, and deceptively simple. So bittersweet and wistful to begin, tentative, circumspect, then rising to ebullience, and then drifting off into softness and peace.

Long after he left – to a feeble smattering of applause that made me wonder if anyone else had heard the same music as myself – the notes still echoed in my mind. That night I dreamed of his violin. For the first night in so many I was not awoken by nightmares – or kept asleep by vile chemicals. I dreamed I was wandering through London, trying to find…something. It was dark and foggy, but I knew all would be well if only I could follow the sound of that music. 

I returned to The Queen’s Arms almost nightly, only to hear him play. I never tried to speak to him – what would I say? – but the more I watched him the more enraptured I became by his strange, severe features, the graceful movement of his body, and his eyes. When he played, he adopted a dreamy half-lidded expression. But when I did see his eyes, they were startling. They were very light, almost like a blind man’s. They haunted my dreams, also.

The last time I saw him, I was the focus of those terrible eyes. He finished his set and as he took a bow he glanced out into the audience. His eyes lit upon me. They lingered. I was taken aback. It felt like a challenge. Then, as if nothing had happened at all, he looked away, and sauntered off the stage.

I never saw him there again. 

The winter ground on. The year turned. I learned the best way not to think about death was not to think at all.

I enquired after the violinist incessantly, but the mystery remained unclear. I learned that his name was Vernet, and that he occasionally played theatres around town. Horror crept back into my dreams. I dreamed of the war every night.

The ghazis were fierce fighters, and they had strange forces on their side that were unmatched by any weapon I knew of. Savage beasts lived in the mountains, things that were half man and half dog but more vicious than both. They attacked our camps in the twilight. I remember their eyes gleaming red in the light of the setting sun. They could rip a man apart with their bare hands with all the potency of a pulwar. To make matters worse, they carried a sort of rabid infection, and a bite was often a death sentence. I dreamed of the infected men, watching them transform. There was little I could ever do. In some dreams, I put them down. In others, I let them bite me. 

The worst disaster of the campaign, the one that changed my life forever, occurred when we were sent on a mission to head off the enemy by cutting directly through the mountains. They had once used the ancient tunnels as hideouts. It was rumored that deep within there were ancient stone cities from before the age of man, and incomparable riches. This turned out to be, as they say in the military, “bad intelligence.” It took hardly any time for us to become hopelessly lost. 

Often, in my dreams, I was in those tunnels again. Enormous sculptures of gruesome inhuman creatures lined the cave walls. Their terrible beaked faces seemed to grin in the wavering light of our lanterns. We marched in silence, but each man wondered to himself what could have inspired the ancient stone carvers to invent such creatures. At this point the dream is always the same and I can do nothing to prevent it. 

Someone behind me calls for help. As I turn I see his face. It is horribly twisted, beyond the bounds of physical possibility, like I am looking at him through a glass of water. But still his mouth moves and he screams.

Emerging from the darkness were forms, but not of any men. They were those terrible creatures portrayed in the statues. One raised an appendage, like a hand with long clawed fingers, and as it gestured the soldier behind me fell to the ground, blood and organs spilling from him as if he had been turned inside out. Soldiers turned to fight but an invisible force immediately struck them down.

I heard the call for retreat. There were a series of explosions as all of our lanterns burst instantly and we were plunged into utter darkness. Everyone scattered. I became lost in the chaos, separated from my unit, blind in the darkness and running for my life like a rat. I had the presence of mind to light a vesta, but I could hardly tell where I had been or where I was going. 

When I was lucky, this is when I'd wake up.

I got into the habit of keeping a light on when I slept. Too many times I had awakened in the dark hallucinating that one of those things stood at the foot of my bed staring down at me with its pin light eyes and needle teeth. 

One day, for lack of anything to do, I was taking a round in the park near my new dreadful lodgings in Pimlico and was on some alley not far from St James Street. I remembered I was out of medicine and ducked into a chemist’s. Nothing could have prepared me for the series of events that would unwind from that this innocuous decision

I could tell instantly that the shop was no place for a respectable gentleman. (This was just as well, for I feared I had left that designation behind me forever.) The walls were covered with Eastern hangings, and prints with strange glyphs and human figures that I supposed represented different pseudo-medical systems. There were weird pagan idols in the display cases alongside the usual pills and rubbish patent medicines. The whole place smelled vaguely of hashish. 

I momentarily doubted I had entered the right shop but I could clearly read the letters CHEMIST’S from the inside of the window. It seemed to be deserted. I considered leaving immediately, but my morbid curiosity got the better of me and I started looking at the displays. 

There was the usual assortment of elixirs promising to cure dream madness, royal hysteria, psychic headaches – every variety of ailment that could be attributed to fraternization between a human and a noble. Madness was a fashion and medicine was like a hat ribbon or a feather – it was only for display. I picked up a bottle. The label read Dr Stamford’s PEACE OF MIND / Sedative - Soporific - Hypnostatic / Relieves Dream Madness. I huffed dismissively. 

Suddenly I heard a step behind me. I turned, and behind the counter I was shocked to see a little round man wearing little round glasses with his pudgy little hands folded on the countertop. I do not have a particular phobia of little round men, but this one made my heart turn to ice for I was positive we knew each other. This may seem like an illogical reaction to seeing a former acquaintance, but I had been brought so low in my health and my fortunes that I couldn’t bear to be recognized. I was so ashamed of my condition and chemical dependencies that I was loath to even visit the same shop twice lest the proprietor see what a quantity of opiates I was getting through. 

I stood there, petrified, in the middle of the dark, pungent shop holding Dr Stamford’s Peace of Mind in one hand with an expression like a cornered rabbit, staring at the eponymous doctor, and he said, “Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?” 

“Erm,” said I.

He smiled politely like one might when dealing with an idiot. “One of Dr Stamford’s patented dream cures for you, sir? May I recommend anything else?” 

“Yes. Six ounces chloral, please.” 

“Very good, sir.”

“It’s for a patient,” I added. 

He spoke to me as he turned to his work preparing my order. “Oh, are you in practice, sir? Where are you situated? Don’t believe I’ve seen you in here before. As one medical man to another, I shall give you, for your patients, some samples _gratis_ of my personal formulae. I have –ahaha- special knowledge of these bizarre illnesses and their cures.” 

If I had been my own self I would have made some cutting remark about his lack of ordinary knowledge, never mind special knowledge. Instead, I was shocked that he really didn’t recognise me. The realisation crushed me. I looked at my reflection in the glass display case. Thin, hollow cheeked, with dark circles around my eyes. It was no wonder he didn’t recognize his onetime fellow student. The war had aged me ten years. I looked more like a cadaver than a doctor.

“Here you are. That’ll be 9s even,” he said, placing a paper parcel before me. 

I put my money down and stared at my hand. I felt a sudden, overwhelming need to be recognized, if only to have someone confirm that I was alive. “Thank you, Michael,” I said. 

He leaned forward and peered into my face. Then he struck his fist upon the counter and exclaimed, “John Watson! Well, I’ll be damned.” He bustled out from behind the counter. He shook my hand vigorously and patted my shoulder as he said, “It’s been ages. What have you been doing with yourself?” Then with an odd smile, “What the devil _have_ you been doing with yourself? You look absolutely godawful.” 

I gritted my teeth. He wasn’t wrong. “I was in the war.”

“Oh. Ah.” He made a queer grimace as if I had said something embarrassing. Of course I had. I felt my face flush.

“Thank you. Good day.” I turned to leave.

“Wait-“ 

There was a hand on my sleeve. I shook it off, but did not move away.

“I haven’t seen you in ages, Watson. Come in the back and have some tea. I'll turn the sign around.”

The back room of Stamford’s shop was different from the front in every way. It was charming, cozy, with a vase of flowers on the sideboard and pleasantly bland pictures on the walls. A woman had obviously decorated it, though I could not imagine Stamford with a wife. There was a fresh pot of tea and a plate of crumpets. 

“I would have expected you to be a doctor by now,” I said as he poured. 

“I never actually finished my degree. There was a big misunderstanding and I sort of got sent down. But my uncle passed away at about the same time. This shop belonged to him, so I took over. But I have no regrets. It has been very profitable. Very profitable, indeed.”

He pronounced "profitable" as if he were trying to imply something lurid. 

“You see, my services are highly sought after in…certain circles. I have what you might call an exclusive clientele, with very…particular needs.” 

I recalled why I was never close with Stamford at school. He was one of those people who was very eager to seem interesting. He tried to cultivate an air of mystery and worldliness but always managed to ruin the effect by his over enthusiasm. As he plucked a crumpet from the stack, I noticed he flourished a ring on his fat little finger that had the curious image of a green eye. He also had a gold pin on his cravat with a similar motif. Surely he was implying membership in some club or secret society. 

I decided not to play his game. I nodded and sipped my tea. 

“So, the army. That must have been a corker.” 

I choked a bit. He had his chin in his hand and was leaning forward as if he were a child waiting to hear a story. 

“Well, it was…it was…”

“I’d be pleased to hear all about it, Watson.”

I put down my cup.

My survival was an anomaly. I was found wandering alone in the desert weeks after the battle. I was delirious with thirst and badly bruised, but I was alive, and no one could understand how. I overheard the orderlies talking about it. Three other men had escaped the battle. One was a gibbering lunatic and could not be questioned. Another took his own life after a nervous breakdown in which he moaned about things that could not be unseen. The third, after he physically recovered, wandered out into the desert and was never seen again. My sanity, if not my life, was despaired of and I got the impression my caretakers believed it was only a matter of time.

I had a wound in my shoulder. It was officially recorded as a bullet wound, but that was only because no one could explain what it actually was. It was a hideous, suppurating thing. I developed a fever and imagined that monstrous tendrils were growing out of me. I shouted in my delirium about how what I found deep in that cave had touched me. It had infected me, I knew it, and everyone around me was ignoring this grotesque transformation. 

Eventually I recovered enough that I appeared to no longer suffer delusions. At least, so much that I was not a disgrace to the army. I was sworn to secrecy about the effects of my injury. I swore to myself that I would continue to dissemble and cling to the facade of sanity with my last ounce of strength. 

I told Stamford that I had been shot. 

I hoped that by my careful omissions he might not suspect the truth, but I was only fooling myself and should have realized that he would know instantly, by what I had purchased from him not an hour before, the nature of my ailment. 

He looked at me with an odd focus. I crossed my arms over my chest and looked away. Then he banged his fist on the table, making the tea service jump. “You can’t fool me, Watson, old man! I’ve seen these symptoms before and I know exactly what you need.”

I looked at him sidelong, dreading what was about to come, knowing I had given away too much. 

“Come with me to the theater tonight!”

“Beg pardon?” He scurried out of the room and came back in an instant and thrust a slip of paper under my nose. I read: 

THEATRE DES CATACOMBES  
The Strand Players’ LONDON SPECTACULAR  
Friday, Jan 6th 11pm

“I have a spare ticket. The fellow I was supposed to go with had a change of plans at the last minute. It’ll do you a world of good to get out, and you can meet some of my friends.”


	2. Chapter 2

I returned to my lodgings for supper – or I tried to return to what I thought were my lodgings. I would usually forego the meals that were included with my room and board because they were, without exception, terrible, but buying the drugs had put a slight dent in my wallet since I refused to let Stamford give me a discount. 

As soon as I walked in the door I was accosted by the landlady. 

“I gives you ‘til the end of the week,” she said. 

“Pardon?” said I.

“I don’t want you in me house no longer. You put the others off, the way you carry on shouting at night.”

“I’m sorry, but look, I have –“

“And you broke poor Mr Philips’ nose. ‘e’s been living here this twelvemonth and is a better tenant than the likes of you.”

I remembered the unfortunate Mr Philips. One of the inconvenient effects of the whisky was that it did make me a less patient man.

“I thought you was a gentleman,” she said 

“I’m sorry, Mrs Tanner. I stitched him up alright, though.”

“I want you out by the end of this week.”

“But it’s Friday!” 

“I gives you ‘til Sunday night, no longer!” 

The woman could not be reasoned with. It wasn't that I was settled. All of my earthly belongings could fit into a single bag. But I was so very tired of changing lodgings for one reason or another. I glimpsed my future as a wandering vagabond, with no possessions but the rags on my back.

I sighed and went out again to drink my supper.

I met Stamford in front of his shop at the appointed hour to proceed to the theatre. The theatre we were going to (if a theatre it was – Stamford was somewhat evasive on that point) was a far cry from the Royal Opera. 

“Is this the only way to get there?” I asked. It had begun to snow.

“It’s the quickest way. Besides, Watson, I know you better than to suppose you’ve never been to Soho on a Friday night.” 

Every shadowy window and doorway seemed to have a face in it, and from the corner of my eye I was sure each face belonged to something waiting to leap out of the darkness. The staring beckoning women were wearing on my nerves. 

Apparently “Theatre des Catacombes” was a temporary name given to whatever derelict clandestine hideout the players could burrow into. The present location was the ruins of a pagan church, long since built over and only accessible by a series of tunnels. We went down a series of slick stairs beside an embankment and through a low archway. 

Down, down, lit on our way by widely separated lanterns. I began to regret coming. Then we emerged into a shockingly spacious area. The whole place was a crumbling ruin, and tree roots from above had grown down one wall, but it must have been resplendent in its day, with vaulted ceilings and reliefs carved on the pillars. The pulpit had been converted into a theatrical stage with a curtain hung across it. All valuable artefacts had long been looted or destroyed, but a dark crumbling stain remained on the north wall where the crucifer must have been mounted. It was all lit by a multitude of tall candelabra and torches on the walls, which created strange currents in the cold air. 

“We are actually beneath one of the theatres,” said Stamford. “The Crown, I think. As the rumour goes, the theatre was built over this place, but it was rediscovered during the reconstruction after the fire. Everyone had forgotten about it. They built over it again, but put secret tunnels in. You can’t get at it unless you know where it is. I think if you go out the right way you come up under the statue in Dagon Square.” 

We took a seat near the front on one of the low benches that had been placed there. I supposed there must have been pews at one point, but they had long ago mouldered and decayed.

The play began. The story was common enough. It was a bit like Don Giovanni. A wicked nobleman, identifiable as wicked by his grotesque mask with a long beak, tried to court a beautiful young maiden. He had a rival in the virtuous young male lead. But his object was not merely the seduction of the young lady, for he was actually a wicked sorcerer and was after her very soul. He sought to wield the power of our great old masters (shown by a remarkable series of theatrical tricks with coloured smoke and mirrors). At the end of the first act, the young couple barely escaped his clutches. 

I admit, I was completely captivated by the story. But at this point Stamford nudged my side and whispered to me, “My favourite part is next.” 

The nobleman’s steward took the stage. He had his own grotesque mask that seemed to be covered in long feathers or perhaps feelers. “Ladies and gentlemen, you have cheered for our heroine with great enthusiasm. But! The night isn’t over. The young lady has made her escape for now, but the prince must feast upon someone’s soul.” 

There was a burst of green and purple smoke and the figure of the villain emerged onto the stage. He looked different somehow, but I could not tell why. He seemed to have grown. Where before he had a wicked slinking posture, now he stood tall and regal. I had the strangest impression that I had seen him before. He stalked across the stage, fluttering his long black cape like a circling vulture.

“You cannot escape,” the steward continued. “Who will it be?”

Meanwhile, the audience had erupted in enthusiastic shouts, as if being consumed by the wicked prince were the most delicious fate. The ladies were particularly vocal on this point. 

He descended and paced in front of the pews, sweeping cape as he walked. Then, to my great surprise, he stopped in front of me. We stared at each other. He extended one long white hand.

I heard the women behind me alternately tittering and bewailing their rejection. Stamford elbowed me in the arm. “Go on!” he whispered. 

I took the man's hand. 

He led me up the stairs to the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he declaimed in a ringing voice, “a round of applause for tonight’s sacrifice.” The audience cheered

“This man,” he continued walking around me, turning me from side to side so I could not keep track of where he was or where his hands were, “is a most exceptional specimen.” The audience laughed. I felt a fool but was cowed by their attention and could only let myself be manipulated like a prop.

“But he is still human. Oh, yes, most decidedly human,” he said, turning so we were face to face. One hand held my shoulder and the other hovered over my cheek, so close I imagined I could feel it. His face was very near to mine and I felt the long beak of his mask was the only thing keeping us apart. “You _are_ human, are you not?”

I held his gaze level. “You tell me.”

I saw his eyes twinkle strangely behind the shadow of the mask. His lips twisted in a mischievous half smile. 

He laughed falsely, dramatically. “An extraordinary specimen! Now tell me, dear fellow, what name shall we give to the spectators that they may remember you by?”

“John,” I said. 

He took the corner of his cape in one hand and waved it over his head, and in a strong voice that reverberated from the stone walls he exclaimed, “Say ‘Goodbye’ to John, everyone!” 

There was a puff of smoke, an explosion of light, and before I knew what was happening I was falling. It seemed to me in my surprise that I fell a great distance. I landed on something that wasn’t exactly soft but it yielded to my weight. I was in a confusion of limbs, and realized the scoundrel had thrown his cape over my head before he dropped me. I heard muffled applause that seemed to come from every direction. The fall had terrified me out of all reason and I growled and cursed as I tried to disentangle myself from the cape

At last I pulled it over my head and looked around in enraged vexation. 

I was in a very cold, dark sort of cellar with walls made of dirt, or very dirty stone, and wooden beams supporting the ceiling. Greyish shrouds and planks were scattered about propped against the walls. The burst of light had blinded me temporarily and pink spots swam in my vision. 

Suddenly, I heard a sharp hiss behind me. I spun around and was terrified to see a face floating in the darkness lit by a red flickering glow. I swear it might have been the face of the Devil himself what with the dramatic angular shadows and the oddly twisted mouth. But as I blinked and got my bearings I realized the light was from a match that was being held to a cigarette, and the face - the face! - I should know it anywhere! 

“Please excuse my abruptness,” said my violinist. He took a draw on his cigarette and, turning his head to the side, exhaled a great stream of smoke, like a dragon. “But I was so very anxious to meet you.”

“It’s you,” I stammered. “The violinist - Vernet!” 

“Indeed,” he drawled with the utmost placidity, “but you appear to have me at a disadvantage.” He continued to smoke and stare at me with his disconcerting eyes as I staggered to my feet. I had landed on a pile of sandbags. As I grew more accustomed to the low light I could see that he was leaning against a table strewn with glass bottles and bits of costumery, gloves, hats, tools, cans of paint and brushes. A vase of roses with a card was at his elbow. I could see now the shrouds and planks were set pieces painted with garish scenes of craggy mountains, dead spindly trees, and hellish flames. A strange combination of smells permeated the little room – dirt and paint and an odd metallic tang.

“Where am I?” I asked. “Are we backstage? Why have you brought me here? “ 

“We are below the stage,” he said slowly. “Back, and below.” 

I did not like the way his piercing eyes passed over me when he said that. The disinterested smoking posture he maintained while looking at me with such intensity put me in mind of a coiled snake that would strike without warning. 

“I have brought you here to my little hideout that I might ask you some questions of my own. I must caution you, it is no good lying to me, for I already know you are a military man, late from Afghanistan, most likely a doctor, though the experience did not sit well with you.”

“Why, you impudent—“ 

“And don’t bother reaching for your pistol. I took it out of your pocket.” 

Indeed, my hand had been unconsciously hovering over my pocket. Instantly I started patting it with my hand, but like he said, my gun was gone. 

“It was for my own safety, you understand. For my own safety, also, that I bundled you up and dropped you down the trap. I feel, however, I must apologize as whatever was in your other pocket did not survive the fall.” 

I had just noticed a coldness seeping into my right leg. I realized my coat pocket was soaked through. The two bottles of medicine from Stamford’s shop had cracked and all I had to show for the afternoon’s outing was a wet bag of broken glass. At that moment I lost my temper. 

“Now see here, you scoundrel,” I began, striding towards him. But I got no further for he had drawn my own gun against me. I halted mid-step, more from surprise than fear. 

Then he, eyes ablaze, demanded, “Why have you been following me?”

“Following you?!” I spluttered. The absurdity of the question in that place made me doubt I had heard him correctly. 

“Yes, following me. You were at the Queen’s Arms and Stamford’s shop and now you are in my theatre. You asked a dozen people for my whereabouts. Well, you have found now and you can speak to me face to face.” 

And then I realized what a weird slinking villainous cad I must look to this fellow and, more distressing, the change in my behaviour that had apparently come over me since returning to the country. Was there ever a time in my former life when I hesitated to make the acquaintance of such an alluring individual? Was it only now the fear of rejection that made me creep and hide away or was it truly the case that I was so transformed and all my denial was only self deception? 

And then all my anger—at him for misunderstanding me and at myself for being such a damned coward—overcame me. I took the cracked bottle from my pocket and hurled it against the wall so it shattered into a million bright little pieces and the label fluttered down onto the floor. 

I sighed heavily, hardly able to face the man. “I was looking for you because I wanted to hear you play your violin again.” 

His eyes widened and a look of candid surprise came over his face. it was too dark in that little cellar to tell, but I think he might have blushed. 

“Ah,” he murmured. “I’m very sorry.” Then, in a stronger voice, “I’m usually not wrong about these things.” A pause. “Did you really like my fiddle playing?” 

“I’ve just said as much.”

He chuckled softly. “I believe you are telling the truth.” 

“Aye? Cheers. “ His evident flattery had given me confidence. “May I have my gun back?”

He handed it to me and I replaced it in my pocket. “You were right about everything else, though. That I was in the army and a doctor.”

“I am, as I said, usually not wrong about these things.” 

“But on my life, I had no idea you would be here tonight. Are you an actor, then? As well as being a musician?” 

He laughed a curiously introspective laugh. “I have my hand in a great many things. And I do act, from time to time. But on this occasion I am providing the pyrotechnics - the smoke and sparkles, and the purple flames, which are always a favourite with the audience.” The glasses and vials, and the curious chemical smell made sense, then. “But this is an intriguing coincidence. How did you come to this theater? “ 

“Stamford invited me. I had no idea you two knew each other. I'll have you know I visited his shop for my own reasons.” 

“Oh!” Vernet exclaimed, slapping his forehead. “Oh, what a fool I am! You must be the gentleman who was enquiring after the room to let! This is a startling coincidence. He mentioned you, but I’m afraid when Stamford talks at me I hardly retain one word out of ten. The man does have a tendency to prattle on about the most—but that is immaterial. I do still have the room, if you are interested, though I’m afraid we may have started off on the wrong foot.”

I was caught in an impossible dilemma. I had lost my lodgings, and only had another vile rat hole to look forward to, but I had just me this man. Could I pretend to be someone neither of us knew; could I lie to this man who seemed so confident in his ability to read me? I had the inkling he was still suspicious of me, but what I was being offered must surely be better than the alternative. I threw caution to the wind.

“Yes, I am interested.” 

“Splendid. Let us introduce ourselves properly and put all this awkwardness behind us. Colonel, was it?” 

“Erm, only an officer, I’m afraid. But I’m a civilian now, of course. John Watson. Dr John Watson.” 

At that moment an ear piercing scream rent the air – it was no theatrical scream but a scream of true terror. 

The play had proceeded above us during our conversation, with all the attendant declamations, gasps, explosions, and occasional applause. Suddenly, there was a terrible commotion in the theatre, a hurricane of screaming and running feet. 

A voice shouted, “In the name of Her Imperial Majesty, the Queen, everyone in this theatre is under arrest!” 

“Never! You cannot stop the Restoration!” came the answering cry, and to my horror there was the sound of a gunshot.

“What’s happening?” I cried. I automatically reached for my pistol. 

I looked to Vernet. He was frozen in wide eyed terror. “It’s a raid,” he hissed 

“The police?”

“Worse, the Royal Guard.” 

There was a noise like a whip crack and then a thud on the stage above our heads. I looked up and through the slivers of light between the boards I could discern the figure of a man. Something dripped on my cheek and from the smell alone I knew it was blood. 

“We have to get out of here. Come with me,” said Vernet.

“There’s a wounded man up there. I’m a doctor, I can help.” 

“You’ll be arrested. Merely setting foot in this place has put you on the wrong side of the law.”

But I was already running up the steep stairway that led up behind the curtain. The scene was utter chaos. Uniformed guardsmen were chasing the audience members trying to round them up. On the stage one guard had the heroine by the waist and was trying to bodily carry her away. The hero was lying on the floor, insensate, and above him the villain - strange to call him that when he was fighting for his own life - was fending off a club-wielding guard with his stage sword. Like in a dream, everything seemed to be moving too slowly.

One of the guardsmen came at me. I thought for a moment that he was a very ugly man, with his fish white skin and protuberant teeth. But no man’s eyes were so round and yellow like that. 

I tried to fire the gun. He ducked in defence, but nothing happened.

“That won’t work. I took the bullets out,” said Vernet’s voice behind me.

“You _what_?” 

He hurled something over my head and grabbed my arm to drag me back down the stairs. There was an explosion behind us, an incredible rush of heat and air and noise that almost caused me to tumble headlong. 

“Was that a bomb?” I shouted.

“How very observant of you. Help me shift this tree.”

He was pushing some of the painted wooden set pieces away from the wall. It revealed a hole just large enough for a man to slip through. There may have been a door or a gate once. He had the cape around his shoulders again and stood with one foot in that impenetrable darkness.

“Come on. Leave the lamp.”

I didn’t move.

“What’s wrong.”

“It’s too—“ I gasped for air. It was too loud, too dark, too hot, too cold, too fast. I was in my dream again and the worst part was next. 

“There’s no time for that.”

He grasped my hand, and I despair to think what would have happened if he hadn’t. I would have stood there, paralysed by terror. I would have perished from indecision.

I think I hardly breathed for the time it took us to run through that dark tunnel. We were ankle deep in frigid water, no doubt mixed with decades of rat filth. We emerged up a set of steps through a broken grate in a back alley piled with garbage. 

The snow had stopped but the streets were icy. It was exhausting for me to lumber along beside him at his long legged pace and keep my balance. I could barely feel my feet. 

“Take a left here. No, a _left_. We’re nearly there.” 

“Thank goodness,” I wheezed under my breath. The midwinter fog was thick and yellow. I felt like we had run for miles. I didn’t even know what street we were on when he stopped at a door marked 21.

Inside was a warm dark hallway, and carpeted stairs. At the top of the stairs was a door, and behind the door was a sitting room. It had three tall narrow windows with mismatched curtains, an assortment of old furniture, and a great quantity of books and papers stuffed into and stacked upon every space that could hold them

Vernet instantly went to the fireplace and began shovelling in coals, trying to build up a blaze. 

“Sit down,” he said.

There were two armchairs flanking the fireplace, a tall dark magenta wing-backed affair, and a wide square one with green and white striped upholstery. I settled into the latter. My teeth were chattering. I had lost my hat in our escape. Vernet could not have fared any better, only having the cape to wear over his shirt. 

“Take off your shoes. They’re soaked through.”

I put them up against the fender. He disappeared into a side room. I glanced at the window to get some sense of where we were, but could only see the fog. Instantly he returned wearing a quilted purple dressing gown over his shirt and trousers and collapsed into the chair opposite.

“We were not followed,” he said, answering my unspoken question.

“I am concerned for the other actors. And Stamford. It was terrible for me to leave him there.” 

He sighed, an oddly high pitched sound. “They knew the risk. Those who did not get away will be arrested on sedition counts.”

“Is there anything that can be done?”

He raised his eyebrow as if I had said something amusing. “Not yet. Not for a while. It will certainly be an inconvenient setback for them.”

“And you?”

“I intend to bide my time, lie low for a while, stay off the stage. I believe I covered my trail adequately. I’m not Vernet here. I’ve taken these rooms under the name Sherlock Holmes—“

“Well that sounds like an obvious alias.”

“—because that is my actual name.”

“I beg your pardon.” 

He smirked at me and I was not sure whether he was in earnest. He dug his hand between the cushions of his chair and pulled out a pipe, which he lit with a hot coal. He puffed contemplatively for a moment, staring into the fire.

“Someone knew about the play - someone who saw it as a threat, who wants to see the Restoration movement wiped out.”

“This Restoration that you’re part of - “ 

“I am not part of it. Its politics do not concern me. My job tonight was to provide the pyrotechnics. Which, I might remind you, I did to the very end.“

“But you involved yourself.”

“Do you suppose every actor who plays Hamlet has strong opinions about 11th century marriage law?”

“No, but an actor may have died for his role tonight.”

He stood and started rifling through a mess of papers on top of the mantelpiece. a few receipts and a teaspoon fell to the floor. He found a pencil and a blank envelope, then clenched the pipe between his teeth as he wrote.

“The raid should not have happened. I must make a list of everyone who had tickets to that performance, anyone who knew when and where it was. Someone alerted the Royal Guard.” 

“Er, Vernet—“

“Holmes, please.”

“Sorry. Holmes. What were those creatures in the theatre?”

“The Royal Guard. Didn’t I say that?”

“But they were terrible! They looked just like…just like…”

“The monsters you saw in Afghanistan?” He paused his scribbling.

“How did you know that?” 

“I didn’t, not until this very moment, but your reaction could have no other explanation. You have your hand on your shoulder.” He began pacing before the fireplace, gesturing with his pipe. “You had a peculiar experience in the army, did you not?”

“I was wounded,” I said, not above a whisper. 

“Yes, but aside from that. I noticed it when you went to shake my hand. You reached forward with your left hand, then corrected yourself and switched to your right. I had deduced you were left-handed from the way you held your gun, but even a left handed man knows it is correct to shake with the right hand. It might have been a momentary lapse, but when we were running up the street you started to turn right when I told you to turn left, so this confusion is obviously a habit with you. But if you have a man who cannot tell his right from his left, he has a sad chance of becoming a doctor, even an army doctor. It stands to reason, then, that you developed this affliction some time after taking your medical degree and joining the service. Something happened to you, as a consequence of which you have become inverted.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help myself; the way he said it was so nonchalant. “Yes, you have struck upon it exactly. How terribly clever of you.” I choked on my words, unable to respond to this revelation of my deepest secret that this stranger had rattled off as if it were no more interesting or personal than my shoe size. So, silently, I stood. I took his hand and, moving aside my jacket, placed it over my chest, on the right side, on the side of my body where my heart should not be. 

A look of shock came over his face, as well it might, when he felt my heartbeat beneath his palm.

“I have been this way,” I said unsteadily, “since the battle of Maiwand. Are you horrified?”

“No,” he said, and his lips quirked into an unfathomable half smile. “I’m fascinated. Tell me how it happened.” 

I released his hand and we sat, facing each other. “I’m not entirely sure, myself,” I began, staring into the fire. I told him about the battle, the monsters, the caves, being lost, thinking I would die. Eventually I became aware of a light, and thinking it was the light of day I ran towards it. I was too mad with fear to realize I was running downhill until I emerged into a huge cavern, flooded with bright light. I fell, then. I fell for what seemed like an eternity into that blinding, searing light. And all the while I was falling towards a titanic something that undulated at the bottom of the cavern. It reached out to me and I felt myself touched, manipulated. The whole world seemed to turn inside out and when I came to I was outside the cave. There I was found and learned that days had inexplicably passed. 

I didn’t tell him about the scar on the shoulder opposite my heart where the thing touched me. I didn’t tell him either about the strange sense that something was alive inside of me at this spot opposite my heart, that that monster had stung me somehow.

All the while he had been sitting in the opposite chair smoking, regarding me with a detached interest, like a physician listening to a series of very specific but not particularly alarming symptoms. 

“I would think I was mad if I didn’t have the evidence before me,” I said, touching my chest. 

“And yet, the contrapositive." He gestured with his pipe, drawing smoke swirls in the air. "I don’t think you’re mad, because I have the evidence that you aren’t.” He tilted his head to the side and looked at me fondly as if I had been silly to worry at all.

I smiled. “Thank you. For listening to that.” I rubbed my hands over my face. “Good Lord, what a day.”

“Any you didn’t even get to hear me play my violin.” 

I glanced up. I would have thought it was a magic trick. At the very moment he mentioned it I noticed the violin sitting in its case at nearly obscured by the shadow cast by his armchair. 

“Would you? Is it too late?” 

“My dear fellow, I thought you would never ask,” he said, already reaching for the instrument. 

If I were not so utterly exhausted, I would have been surprised, but as it was I fell asleep almost instantly. What he played for me was the very same piece that he played that first time. And as I drifted off, I heard him say, as if from very far away, “Perhaps there is hope yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "song about the wounded soldier" that Watson likes to think is about him refers to Johnny We Hardly Knew Ye. I like the Dropkick Murphys version https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yg_rf2d894k
> 
> The piece that Holmes plays is Ciaccona in A Major by JH Schmelzer. I don't know what it is about it but I really like it https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GGAEpnUSUEg
> 
> And if it was not clear, Watson's magical wandering war wound is due to him getting pulled up into the 4th dimension and flipped around like Mr Square in Flatland. He survives because this is fiction.


End file.
